


Big Teeth/Little Red

by PacificRimbaud



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Everyone Is An Adult, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud/pseuds/PacificRimbaud
Summary: Sirius’ smirk has made itself at home on his face. Remus can see the half of a laugh jammed tight in the back of his throat, and he is forced to agree. It’s funny, clearly: the incongruity of Remus, grey and solitary as a driftwood pine, having anything at all to do with this woman—glossy, golden, pert, painfully young—dressed in—“Is that a dirndl?” Sirius asks, and it is. Nominally.There’s a bounce again—a spring —to the whole affair while she crosses the room, bright red cape gone blood-dark in the dim room, snagging on a sword, a light saber, a trident, the scales of a mermaid’s tail. She’s bumped, at the end—a little something extra sprinkled over the top of this soul-crumpling episode of ironic serendipity—so that she falls forward into him with those damnable breasts he’s faithfully failed to notice, and clings to him with a laugh.He meditates on the impolite, antierotic itch of his unlined faux fur paws, and the sweltering manufactured fug behind the muzzle of the mask, but his hands sit at her hips, and they refuse to be moved.“Oh, my.” She touches the tip of a soft plastic canine. “What big teeth you have.”
Relationships: Lavender Brown/Remus Lupin
Comments: 23
Kudos: 120
Collections: Fall Fumble 2020





	Big Teeth/Little Red

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic features adult characters over the age of 21 with a 20-year age difference being in consensual sexual relationships. If that dynamic bothers you, please skip this one!

“They’re too fucking young for this.”

“Yeah.” Remus draws at his pint, then wipes his upper lip with the beige napkin from the bar. “But they’re adults. We did far stupider things at their age.”

“She’s pregnant,” Sirius says. “Unsurprisingly.”

Remus hardly reacts at all, because—

“Not unexpected, no.”

Sirius takes a swallow from the mouth of a bottle of ale and shakes his head. “He’s happy, though.” He gets that look, the chaotic one that means he’s gotten away with something or is about to, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “And her parents paid for the wedding.”

“What was the inspiration?” Remus leaves a mouthful in the bottom of his glass as a rule. He knows when he’s finished, and when to stop. “Big Halloween wedding doesn’t seem like a particularly Harry move.”

Sirius turns around on his stool, and watches one of the retirees that hasn’t been driven out of the union bar by the encroaching university hipsters land a bank shot at the pool table.

“They're on a schedule, so to speak, and it seems Halloween last year was the first time they—”

“Hooked up,” Remus suggests.

“That’s right.” Sirius clanks his bottle against the side of Remus’ glass. “Cheers to the librarian, boring shirts and a finger on the pulse of teen vernacular by way of young adult literature.”

“I'm always a few years behind, but sure. Cheers to the young couple.”

Sirius leans back, crosses one heavy black boot over the other. “They’re having a party on Friday night. Stag night, hen night, rehearsal party, one big hurrah with friends and family all together, I don’t have a fucking clue,” he says, and takes a curiously keen interest in the goings on at the pool table. “I’ll need you there.”

“Need _me_ there. What for?”

“We’re hosting it at mine. Catering and a band and all. Marlene will be there.”

Remus scoffs. “You don’t need me to run interference between you and Marlene. Unless...” He examines Sirius, and finds his face dubiously placid. “Who are you seeing?”

“You’re not allowed to judge me, you know. She’s an adult.”

"And why might I have thought that she wasn't?"

Sirius shakes his head like he’s clearing away a haunted memory. Then he tells Remus who he’s been sleeping with.

“You’re wrong,” says Remus. He drinks the last swallow of his beer. “I’m absolutely allowed to judge you for that.”

“It’s a costume party, by the way."

“Oh, good Lord.”

* * *

One week from Harry’s Halloween wedding, the costume shops are stripped clean.

Remus might choose to be a giant slice of pizza. Or a giant taco. Perhaps a giant penis and scrotum in cheap acrylic satin. He picks up a costume labeled “Under Arrest” that includes a wrestling singlet in black, cut below the navel, a pair of cheap plastic handcuffs and a plastic custodian helmet, and sets it gingerly back down.

Or— 

He picks up a mask and set of paws. He considers the teeth, long and slavering, with a glossy coat of plastic drool tinged with plastic blood.

The better to eat with, he supposes.

“Thirty pounds twenty,” drones the woman behind the counter.

The insides of the paws are unlined, and when Remus slips one on it immediately begins to itch.

* * *

“How in God’s name did that happen?”

Later in the week, they watch the same old timer playing pool.

“She spent the night with Harry. Platonically. She’d been drinking the night before.” Sirius stops, as though that explains it.

Remus waits.

“I wasn’t the one to make the first move,” Sirius says, stridently defensive. “I swear. But she’ll be there. She and Harry are still quite close.”

“What on Earth does she see in you?”

Sirius ignores the question, narrows his eyes, and draws a hand over his mouth. “It didn’t happen that morning."

Remus waits again.

Sirius gives him his look of dramatized innocence. "I only gave her a _nickname_ that morning.”

“And what was that? If it was Little Red I'm walking out of this bar right now.”

Sirius stalls again.

“I called her 'Bad Idea.'"

“I see.” Remus blows out a long exhalation. “That was a fucking terrible idea.”

* * *

Remus doesn’t have bad ideas.

He has boring tan Oxford shoes, boring blue shirts, and boring brown tweed trousers. He has mundane Mondays off, and a dental appointment card in his wallet, and a stack of advance review copies of novels next to his bed. He has all of his hair, though it's been greying for years, and he has the public desk rotation at the library on Friday mornings, during story time for the two and unders and their carers, which has nothing to do with ideas of any kind, good or bad.

But if he were to have a terrible idea, he would never call it that.

He wouldn't call it anything at all.

Without a word, he’d open his mouth, and swallow it down whole.

It would never be seen again.

* * *

_Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?_

A twitch reverberates from the center of Remus’ lower back and reminds him to straighten his spine at the reference desk.

From his nook in the forest of the atrium he scratches away at his notepad, listing ideas for what might go into activity boxes for retirees: bird watching books and a history of jazz music and card games. To either side, the stringy arms of miserable ficuses strive upwards into the grey October light.

_The big bad wolf, the big bad wolf…_

The youth librarian might have retired her ancient portable stereo and saved everyone the agony. But he’s seen the stereo dropped and slammed and, once, given a walloping great kick halfway across the story time circle, and it still plays on, the sound cheap and insubstantial as a disposable pie tin.

_Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?_

The toddlers march around in a circle bashing wooden rhythm sticks together to the grizzly audio. There’s a little chap who’s located the beat and clings to it precociously, but the rest clack away at their autonomous syncopations, stumping about in dislocated patterns on their doughy legs.

Remus identifies with the ones who would prefer to simply stand in one place and watch their caretakers sing and stomp and do the clacking for them.

There’s just such a one today, in a handknit cardigan and a pair of pink and purple wellies with toes molded to look like the smiling faces of anthropomorphic butterflies. The child has refused its sticks and opted to tuck the thumb of one hand away in its mouth, and hold onto its grown-up companion with the other. The hand guiding it along is exceedingly gentle, but the child looks as though it’s being frog marched all the same, shoulders back and belly tilted forward, feet dragging against the low pile of the industrial carpet.

_Tra la la la la!_

The children and their adults begin to skip.

Remus stretches his back out and places his mechanical pencil down on his notepad. She’s at least half his age, this reluctant child’s minder.

_Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?_

She wears leggings and pink trainers, an oversized grey jumper and a black cotton scarf printed with white ghosts, somehow horribly young and something like what you’d wear to a yoga class but professionally appropriate all at once. Her dark blonde hair is pulled up in a great, shining swirl, with little pieces of it trailing down just at her ears.

Her earrings are tiny white pumpkins, and her mouth is glossy and pink.

Remus takes her in at a glance, then becomes interested in refreshing his pencil lead.

While he tugs at the cap, he wonders at the audacity of living one’s life as Sirius Black.

What must it be like: to understand the line between being a man who has bad ideas, and being a bad man? To gleefully ride along the edge of it, to toss away all but your own discernment, to simply do what you would like to do so long as no one’s being harmed, to not worry about what your desires say about you, to call your godson’s half-dressed former girlfriend a _bad idea_ to her waggishly smiling face at your kitchen table and to let yourself bask in the fallout, sated like a wolf that's helped itself to a lamb. A—

_...big bad wolf…_

_...big bad wolf..._

The children clack and skip, and the tin stereo squeals.

Remus glances again.

The nursery school teacher bounds in her youthful, teacherly trainers, and her youthful, teacherly jumper, and with her gentle hand she draws the little child in its boots along, belly forward.

Her hair bounces, and her scarf bounces, and her—

Do bad ideas make you a big, bad man?

She turns her great, wide, bright blue eyes to Remus, like she has for a year.

Remus counts backward in his mind, through September and August, summer and spring, recalls her in short floral skirts and short leather boots, through winter and the fall before, scarves and jumpers and hair up in pink velvet ties, a year’s worth of smiles, of tugging along reluctant babies with her soft, saintly hands, to folding them in her lap, to hauling armloads of books away during her off hours, when she wears her leggings and her trainers but also cropped t-shirts that fall off her gleaming, smooth shoulder, or ones that are so tight that they can’t fall anywhere at all.

She tilts her head, and she smiles.

_Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf?_

She doesn't wear a wedding ring. He knows because he's looked.

The little one gives half a skip, seems to tolerate it, and does another.

The teacher bounces.

She keeps smiling.

Remus smiles back.

_Tra la la la la!_

* * *

_Come by the house at four_

_You said six_

_Marlene’s coming at four thirty_

_I’m not a shield. You need to tell her before she sees you_

_She’ll geld me_

_You’ve been separated for over a year_

_And how is that going to help me?_

* * *

Marlene chugs down half her glass of rosé, leans into Remus’ ear and half-shouts over the music. “If she’d been one of the girls we had over at the house when they were all still at school, I’d have had his bollocks.”

Remus nods his wolf’s head in assent. “Narrowly missed that, I believe, but only because she was a year behind Harry. You look incredibly sexy by the way.”

She looks down at her feet and shuttles her roller skates back and forth. “Not too much?”

Remus gives her a thorough perusal. “Not at all. Your arse in small satin shorts is a thing of legend.”

“Thank you,” Marlene says, propping her hands over her hips. “I figure if Sirius can get away with spending his midlife crisis on top of a 21 year-old, the rest of us can do whatever the fuck we want with impunity.”

“Fair enough.” The werewolf mask makes Remus feel as though his head is in its own private sauna. He peels it off and leaves it to sit on the back of his skull like a hat while he scratches at the backs of his hands inside the plastic fur paws. “Can I do anything to help on Sunday?”

“The Parkinsons have bought themselves all the help anyone could ask for.” Marlene lifts up on one of the toe stops of her periwinkle roller skates and kisses Remus at the corner of his mouth. “What a sweaty boy you are.” She wipes at his face with the back of her hand. “Lipstick, sorry. I was allowed to help Harry with the gifts for the groomsmen, and I’ll get to sit in a very lovely, _very_ tight black dress at the wedding of the young man I raised, and dab at my tears with a black lace handkerchief. It will be exceptionally dramatic. I couldn’t have asked for more in this life.”

She kisses Remus again, and doesn’t wipe the lipstick away before she rolls off into the arm of the Greek shipping magnate she’s been seeing.

* * *

Remus, in his thin-soled Oxfords, over-warm in his moth-nipped cardigan, leans back against the wall in the sitting room with a glass of white wine that he can’t drink through his mask. The room is cheek by jowl—the whole house is, really—and he can’t see the band that’s crowded into the opposite corner over the tops of dozens of heads.

“Having fun yet?” Sirius crashes his shoulders against the wall beside him, flushed with booze. He looks prepared for mayhem, which may or may not be entirely due to his being dressed like a pirate, all in black.

“A great deal of it, thank you.”

“What do you think of Constantine?” A black mask sits over half of Sirius’ face, but Remus watches his pupils follow Marlene as she skates by the doorway, drawn along by the hand of a man with dark hair shot through with grey.

“I think you’re not allowed to have an opinion about your former partner’s date when you’re going to bed with a woman half your age.”

“Fair enough.” He thumps Remus on the shoulder. “I’m afraid we can’t all be like you, Saint Therese.”

“Is there anything I can help with?” Absent anything else to do, Remus has been picking up paper plates and throwing them in the bin for the last half hour.

“It’s catered, old man. There’s nothing to be done besides enjoying yourself, I’m afraid.” Sirius’ smile slips into a smirk. “Oh, hello. Someone here knows you.”

Remus follows Sirius’ line of sight into the crowd. “What?”

“You know her?”

Remus finally sees what Sirius is looking at.

"Yeah. I do."

* * *

She’d begun to talk to him in June.

“What books have you enjoyed in the past?” Remus had slipped a copy of _Atonement_ from the shelving cart behind him and flipped it open for no other reason than to have something to do with his hands. “It’s easier to make a recommendation if I know what you like.”

She’d laughed then, slight and nervous.

“I really enjoyed that,” she said, pointing at _Atonement._ “And so far this year I've enjoyed _Life of Pi._ _Fingersmith._ By Sarah Waters.”

She’d been expectant, waiting for him while he thought, running the side of his thumb along the edges of the pages.

She had such a lot of hair, worn down today, curling over tight white t-shirt, falling away from the sides of her—

“Anything else you’ve liked recently?” Remus asked.

“ _I Stink,_ ” she said, and then she’d blushed, as fiercely pink as the fabric hair tie around her wrist. “It’s a picture book.”

She’d briefly shut her eyes, and hugged her stack of picture books up into her ribs, underneath her—

“Yes, it’s quite good,” Remus had said, and he’d meant it. “I’m sure the children really enjoy it.”

She opened her eyes.

“It’s been a favorite.” She’d drawn the books tighter under her breasts. “I think I’d like a romance. A really good one.”

“I see.” Remus had tilted back in his chair, and thought about it.

* * *

She looks different here, and it’s not just the costume.

She’s out of context, darker in the low light, with an edge she doesn’t have anywhere else he’s seen her.

Sirius’ smirk has made itself at home on his face. Remus can see the half of a laugh jammed tight in the back of his throat, and he is forced to agree. It’s funny, clearly: the incongruity of Remus, grey and solitary as a driftwood pine, having anything at all to do with this woman—glossy, golden, pert, painfully young—dressed in—

“Is that a dirndl?” Sirius asks, and it is. Nominally.

There’s a bounce again—a _spring_ —to the whole affair while she crosses the room, bright red cape gone blood-dark in the dim room, snagging on a sword, a light saber, a trident, the scales of a mermaid’s tail. She’s bumped, at the end—a little something extra sprinkled over the top of this soul-crumpling episode of ironic serendipity—so that she falls forward into him with those damnable breasts he’s faithfully failed to notice, and clings to him with a laugh.

He meditates on the impolite, antierotic itch of his unlined faux fur paws, and the sweltering manufactured fug behind the muzzle of the mask, but his hands sit at her hips, and they refuse to be moved.

“Oh, my.” She touches the tip of a soft plastic canine. “What big teeth you have.”

Sirius’ laugh makes its escape, and capers about the room.

* * *

Sirius has gone to speak with his date, and Remus marvels at the sight of a tall, middle aged Dread Pirate Roberts stealing a wanton kiss in the hall with both his hands on the arse of a very short and very female Inigo Montoya, red hair hidden under a black wig.

“Lavender,” says the woman in Remus’s hands, loudly, at his ear.

He’s been holding her hips for several long minutes, and he doesn’t know why.

He leans forward, into her personal space. “Remus.”

She’s wearing red lipstick to match the cape, and when she smiles, her teeth are white.

“I know,” she says.

“Do you?”

She tilts her head.

“Of course I do.”

* * *

“You have to vote.”

Harry’s bride’s dress has a deep V at the front, cut all the way to her navel. Her long black hair is her own, the perfectly manicured black fingernails, too, a highly polished Morticia to Harry’s half-drunk, half-bewildered Gomez, laughing with his mates in the kitchen.

Remus pulls a slip of paper from the basket Pansy thrusts into his chest, and finds he’s faced with a ballot.

_Most Frightening. Best Costume from a Movie or Television Show. Sexiest._

“Harry and I aren’t in the running,” Pansy says over her shoulder as she walks away. “So don’t vote for us.”

_Best Couple._

Lavender’s golf pencil is poised over her ballot.

She looks up at him with her enormous eyes. Her dirndl is embroidered in white and yellow daisies. The little white shirt underneath is probably cut much lower than it’s meant to be traditionally. Her skirt is much, much shorter than anything one would wear out on any other day, traditionally or otherwise. He’s not sure he’s ever read of a Red who has thigh-high stockings and glitter on her cheeks, either.

“We do coordinate,” Remus says, and he puts a shrug to it, because it’s an accident he feels the need to emphasize.

Lavender writes their names next to _Best Couple._

Red and the big, bad wolf.

_Sexiest._

He presses his pencil into the page behind his cupped hand so she doesn’t catch him writing her name.

* * *

“You ought to have it,” says Lavender, urging a very, _very_ good bottle of wine into his hands.

She was buzzed before, but she’s drunk now, leaning into Remus hips first, and he’s humiliated as he cants his own hips to the side so he doesn’t press himself into her belly.

He’s discarded his mask on the kitchen counter, and his gloves, too, skin sweaty and intolerably irritated. He relents, and grips the second place prize bottle of wine between him and the protagonist of their story.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

There’s a cacophony in the back garden, male voices rising in a chorus of howls at the nearly full moon.

“How does what feel?” Remus lets himself stroke the cotton fabric at the back of Lavender’s dress, so minutely he hopes she doesn’t feel it.

“Having your arms around the sexiest woman in the room.” She maintains the serious look on her face as long as she can, then it breaks and she laughs, holding up her wrist, the silver bracelet with Halloween charms she’d won as her first place prize slipping down her arm.

“Pansy throws a really good party, doesn’t she?” She laughs again, smaller this time, and her brows twitch towards one another.

“What?” he asks.

The wine is carried along on his blood, rushing off with his will and his sense of self preservation.

Lavender leans.

“You could take me home,” she says, very quietly.

She’s never looked younger than she does now, asking him.

Letting him know that she wants him.

Outside, the men laugh and howl on the lawn, Sirius among them, singing to the moon with the boy who is not his son but is, bellies full of booze, drunk on whiskey and love.

“I shouldn’t.” Remus brushes one of Lavender’s careful curls away from her warm forehead.

“Why not?”

Her eyes are wide and uncertain.

 _Because there are good ideas, and there are bad ones,_ he would like to say.

When she’s ready to leave, he calls her a cab.

* * *

He wakes alone in his bed the following day, later than usual, but shored up with water and an aspirin he swallowed the night before, and for a long while he sits up in his bed and reads.

It rains hard, so when he goes for a walk at lunchtime he brings an umbrella, and holds his black three piece suit close to his chest after he fetches it from the cleaner’s.

He thinks of lunch—a baguette and butter, a cup of tea.

“This is a surprise.”

Remus looks up from his paper.

She looks well, fully rested and fresh, water beaded on the fabric of her berry-red Mac, and for a moment Remus misses his own youth, when one could abuse the body with liquor or lack of sleep and it would get on with things the next day as though nothing had happened.

“Hello.” He sits up, uncrosses his legs, and gestures at the seat across from him. “Would you like to join me?”

“No. I ought to move along.” She looks embarrassed, and Remus feels ashamed of himself. He wonders if it’s better or worse than how he might have felt waking up in her bed.

She lifts up a canvas sack. “I visit my grandmother on Saturdays. Bring her library books, take away the old ones. Help her with the laundry.”

“You’re on your way there now?”

“No.” She looks away from him, and watches the traffic stopped at the light outside the window. “I’ve come in for bread, then home.” When she looks at him again, she smiles, and a wet strand of hair clinging to her temple dries enough to lift into a curl.

He has an idea, and maybe it’s a bad one, but it’s out of his mouth before he can swallow.

“I could walk you,” he offers.

There’s a mouthful of tea left in his cup, and instead of watching her face, he studies it, and then drinks it down.

* * *

“They’ll be ruined,” he shouts over the sound of the rain thundering against the top of his umbrella.

“No, they won’t!” Lavender says back over her shoulder. She points at the bucket of daisies, and watches as the florist gathers them into a bouquet. “I always have them in my flat during the week, it won’t do to go without.” She glances at him, and then away. “They look fragile but they’re really quite strong.”

Once they’re arranged and wrapped, he holds their stems under his arm, and they run.

* * *

“There’s a vase in the cupboard over the icebox.”

Lavender’s voice is muffled behind her slightly open bedroom door.

Remus hangs up his rumpled wedding suit, takes off his jacket and folds it over a chair, then finds the vase and fills it in the sink.

“There.”

She emerges from her room in one of her over-sized jumpers, not one of the school-day ones, but the weekend ones that hang off her shoulder, and a pair of extremely small, extremely pink cotton shorts.

“Cats and dogs out there,” she says, and he finds he’s mesmerized by the way she tilts her head to the side and presses her soaking wet hair in a towel.

“Can I get you a cup of tea?”

"I'm fine, thank you." Remus looks around her flat. It’s small. Tidy. _Pretty._

There’s a strip of clips holding up children’s artwork, mostly abstract toddler scribbles and smears of paint. Handprints, too, and one that's clearly a portrait of her, with a blob of peach with two blue dots for eyes and a red one for the mouth, topped with strings of yellow.

“I felt predatory.” He can’t look at her when he says it. “You’d been drinking. And I’m almost twice your age.”

She moves closer, and he still can’t look, but he doesn’t pull his hand away when she folds hers into it.

“I’ve been finished with school for ages.” She squeezes his hand. “I have a job. My own flat. I’m sure there’s more to it, but I’m not a girl. I do appreciate that you waited to kiss me until I wasn’t falling over.”

He turns around, and his hands migrate to her hips again, only this time they're his own hands, not sweaty wolf's paws, resting under the hem of her jumper, over the band of her soft, pink shorts.

“Did I wait to kiss you?”

She nods. “You did. You were a gentleman. But I wasn’t surprised.”

“You weren’t?”

She shakes her head. “No. I knew that about you already.”

She draws herself in closer, and Remus forces himself to not turn his hips away. Her belly is a soft, solid force, and he allows himself to feel it pushing against him.

“I’m shy,” he tells her, low and confessional. “I’m sorry.”

The daisies lie dripping in their plastic wrapper on the table beside the vase.

“That’s true of wolves, actually.” She takes his hand in hers, and slides it from her hip, forward, to her belly below her navel. “But not me.”

* * *

He kisses her.

Against the edge of the table, running his hand over her belly and up her ribs.

In the frame of her bedroom door, her nipples hard under his palms.

In her nest of pale linens, losing his boring blue shirt and his boring tweed trousers to the efficient work of her holy hands.

* * *

He eats her.

At the edge of her bed, hips lifted in his hands, her hands bunched in her sheets, until he's satisfied.

* * *

He devours her.

“You said you were shy.” She’s breathing hard. Moaning. Whining. Smiling, too, over her shoulder.

He has her hips in his hands again, pulling back and into himself.

“Do you want me to be?”

She drops to her elbows, and pushes back against him.

She shakes her head, out of words.

* * *

“It’s an unusual holiday for a wedding, but really romantic.” Lavender draws her fingers idly through the sparse hair at Remus’s chest. “I wonder what she’s going to have in her bouquet?”

“What are you wearing?” Remus presses at her hips, and she rolls onto him, her breasts warm against his chest, and her thighs soft around his waist.

Her hair falls in a still-damp curtain around their heads.

“A dress. Black, with little bats,” she tells him, and then he cuts her off, pulling her mouth down to his.

He rolls his hips upward.

He sinks his teeth into the tendon at her shoulder.

He finds he's starving after all.

* * *

“You and Sirius are both ridiculous.” Marlene adjusts Remus’ boutonniere. “Just behave like a fucking decent human being, alright? She seems really sweet.” She dusts his sleeve. “Christ, I’m going to be a grandmother.”

Remus looks over Marlene's shoulder.

Lavender’s watching him, in her black dress with its twee collar and full skirt and little bats, her heavy blonde hair curling down to her waist and falling away from the sides of her beautiful breasts.

Remus wants nothing more than to hold her hand.

“Did you let Constantine shag you in your roller skates?” he asks.

Marlene looks down at the front of her skin-tight black satin dress, and tugs at the bust. She's the sexiest fucking grandmother at the party. “Of course I did.”


End file.
